At first I thought the two hour wait,
Would be like bleach on a brush,
All colour freely fading into a stately grey,
Almost empty pavements, no movement, no rush,
But unlike the cold heavy shop shutters
Some free-falling fantasy flutters,
Here there is no time, no date,
I am unbound, no destiny or fate,
Just the endless grey tide,
Hushes out to the horizon.
But the silence is not silent,
There is a murmur in the air,
Perhaps a reverberation of the past,
When this town was not muted,
And the silver streets unpolluted
By the resignation of surrender,
But there is still a whisper,
The hope that something can be recast,
Sunshine will be seen again,
Bouncing off the concrete tiles,
What was this place's gimmick?
The dining table deluded into a desk,
I rest against the marble mimic,
Catch sight of the breathing, breaking, burlesque.
